Negative
by Definitely Weird
Summary: It has been made clear to Harry that any magic would lead to punishment, so Harry reflexively tries to shut down any magic he can detect.
1. Setting the Scene

**A/N This is my first fic, and you are among my first viewers, so relax, take a seat, enjoy the story. Don't forget to review.**

Harry woke up with a start. He jerked up, but was careful not to bang his head upon the low ceiling of his "room". Why did he wake up? Aunt Petunia! He hurried and tried to get untangled from his blankets in a rush. Then he noticed that no light came from the crack under his door. Was it his dream that woke him up? He couldn't remember a dream. While Harry was pondering this, one by one, the street lamps wet out. A figure walked, with as much dignity one could have when wearing a purple and gold pinstripe suit, a baby blue wizard's hat and his long white beard in a plait.

"22, 20, 18…" the old man murmured to himself, knowing he would remember the number once he saw it. He was pretty sure it was even. This was going to be the last scheduled check-up. Harry's 9th birthday. Next year, Hagrid would take him to Hogwarts. The boy would enjoy the perks of being famous, while avoiding the downsides as he was brought up in humility. Ah, this was it, number 4. As he disillusioned himself and conjured a ladder to the boy's bedroom, Dumbledore chuckled to himself. If this boy was anything like his mother, he would be a genius, if he was anything like his father, he would be charismatic – but if he were a combination of the two, this boy go on to do amazing things.

As he was listening to the sounds of Dudley's video games upstairs, Harry felt something. Not the spiders he was accustomed to, nor the scratchiness of his blanket, it wasn't the draft of the front door opening, Harry it was inside of him. Something that resonated with his very core. Something he hadn't felt for a long time. He ached in remembrance of his punishment. He shuddered. He wasn't going through that. Not again. Not ever. He need to stop it. He reached out, with his mind, to where he thought the resonance came from and tried to figure out a way to end it.

Albus looked into the room. Maybe humility wasn't the right word. Judging by the amount of toys scattered about the floor and the tenyvision on with the boy in front of it. At least he thought that was what Arthur said. The boy was more ob- well fed – than Albus had thought. With his rounded cheeks, his rounded belly, well, let's just say the boy was well-rounded. Albus almost chuckled at his own joke. On closer inspection, the boy looked a lot like his uncle, minus the faterpiller upon his lips. Albus enjoyed making up words. His invisible eyes widened. This was not the boy. This was his cousin. What was the cousin doing in his room? He glanced upon the bed.

The bed had a lump in it. Was Harry asleep? If so, why was his cousin making so much noise in his room? He examined the lump. In the flickering light of the game, he could see that it had sharp edges, much unlike that of a human. Those were toy boxes in the bed. The bad wasn't even made. He flicked back through his memories. Was it always this way? Was he so blind that he only saw what he wanted to see?

Albus involuntarily shuddered as he was hit by a shock of cold. He looked at his hands. His disillusionment had faded. How? He glanced back into the room, and was met with a pair of wide staring orbs. Dudley screamed.

Harry heard Dudley's yell and knew immediately that he'd be in trouble. He searched for anything he could have missed. There. He sensed it this one was fainter than the other one. He reached out felt out the shape of it and shut it down.

Albus fell. His conjured ladder had disappeared. No, it had been vanished. How was there another magic user in the area? No one should know where he was. If they knew that he was here, they also knew that Harry was. A thumping let him know that the mammoth known as Vernon Dursley had awoken. CRACK!

Orbs of light flew out of his pocket and back into the street lights. Had the fall broken his delumiantor? Was that even possible? He didn't stay to find out. It was time to leave.

He stood up and with a soft 'pop' he was gone.

Vernon Dursley was fuming. His son was terrified out of his wits. A strange man had appeared at his window, out of thin air. He could have passed it off as a dream, or a side effect of playing too many video games late at night. Then he saw with his own eyes. Balls of light floating through the air, to the street lamps, as if by _magic._ He looked outside, down at the lawn there were three indentations on his perfect lawn. Two were spaced right underneath the window, as if there was a ladder there, and on large one. The size of a person. Yet there was no ladder or person.

He knew who was responsible. The same plague that has disrupted their life for the past eight years. If Vernon was thinking clearly, could do math, or cared, he would realize that it _was_ eight years, to the day.

"BOY!" the shout came, reverberating throughout the house. Harry was shaking. He knew he was in for the beating of a lifetime. He knew this was going to hurt. Hurt a lot. He tried to mentally prepare himself for this, but couldn't.

Uncle Vernon practically ripped the cabinet door off its hinges and yanked Harry out. Harry wished he was dead.

Back at his office, Albus examined the broken deluminator. His mind was on other things, one thing, actually. Harry Potter. He was the boy's guardian for the wizarding world. Some guardian he was. Not being able to differentiate between a pile of boxes and his charge. He knew he had to get on the case, as soon as possible, but he had to wait until the ministry reopen in the morning. He may be Chief Warlock of the Wizengamont, but in this case, he had no power, until a visitation permit was passed for him. Annoying bureaucratic red tape. He would have to send it first to the Public Figures department, then through the Child Protection Department and finally he would have to present his case in a small hearing. At best it could take two months. At its worst the boy could already be in Hogwarts by the tie it gets through.

It had a massive crack down the side and the top half was ben it such a way that there was a hole for the light to escape from. He then turned around on his swivel chair, he really did love some of those muggle inventions, and twisted one of his doohickeys. The doohickey (what a fun word) in question was orb shaped and had a distant top and bottom half. Like many of his little objects scattered around the office, it was silver. He twisted the top half so the rune saying create was now in front.

His desk morphed, for that of an eccentric headmaster's, elegantly designed, wooden, covered with many pieces of paperwork, to that of a methodological inventor, clean, circular, a white stone, with a engraving of a circle with nine lines criss-crossing it forming a nine-pointed star. He put on his goggles, and threw his beard over his shoulder, because safety first. He carefully placed the remains of the deluminator within the nine point safety seal. He then activated the shield circle, which began glowing with a faint blue tint, to prevent flying debris from hitting him. It had saved his life probably more than once. Particularly when working with dragon blood. Volatile stuff that.

He pressed upon the third ruin from his left. A safety precaution, removing all magic from the object. He was surprised when it immediately turned green. None of the nine lines flowed with any magic. How was there no magic in the object? That should not be possible. He deactivated the shield circle, and was about to examine his runes when he noticed something.

One of his doohickeys was spitting out a stream of steam. This was normal. What wasn't was the fact that it was red. Harry Potter was in danger. Screw bureaucrats, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was on a warpath.

A glistening green beetle flitted around number 4 Privet Drive. She wondered why Dumbledore was there. Earlier that week, she posted a claim that the man was – well let's say he batted for the other team, and he did not refute it. Some said that he confirmed it. She was hoping to find some dirt on who he was in bed with. She was not surprised to find herself in a muggle neighbourhood, he was a muggle-lover, and this just made it literal. But Dumbledore peeking on at children at night? Ooooh, was that a good story.

Rita, though decided to stick around a little longer. See what there was to see. The father of the child (she could really see the resemblance) then stormed downstairs, yanked open a cupboard, and a small black–haired boy was pulled out. She flew in through the open window and down the stairs. There, being beaten by a muggle was none other than Harry Potter.

 **A/N: What did you think? Leave a review.**


	2. Freakishness

**A/N: WOO HOO! Chapter 2, so soon. Don't expect this to be my regular publish rate. I do have school. What do you think? Leave a review.**

Harry wept in his cupboard, and tears weren't the only liquid staining his cot. He ached all over. He was accused of frightening his cousin with his "freak friends". He did not have any friends. No one wanted to be friends with him. Well, there were a couple people– one person– who tried. But then there was Dudley.

Dudley terrified everyone. He was the big man in school. Harry would have found that funny if he wasn't crying. The one person who thought they were brave enough to stand up to Dudley. That didn't last long. They got so beaten up by Dudley, that they were forced by their parents to another school. Harry didn't want to think about them. He was sure that they would have continued standing up against Dudley – for him if they were still here. It was better for them to not to be here, not to be his friend.

He wouldn't wish that upon anyone. Nobody deserved that fate. Nobody should be his friend.

An almighty crash shook the very foundations of the house. A furious voice reverberated throughout the heads of all four residents.

"PETUNIA!"

Petunia was scared out of her wits. She had heard this voice before, a long time ago, but it was never like this, never this angry. She now knew why this man was hailed as the most powerful wizard of the twentieth century. His fury manifested itself in the form of magic swirling around the figure, creating a fearsome silhouette, with Dumbledore's long grey hair being lifted by the magic, his robes billowing in the magically induced wind.

Albus did not like to emulate Voldemort, but some of his ideas were brilliant. He used the already swirling magic to lift himself off the ground. He was glad he had practiced, as it is not as easy as it sounds, to keep yourself balanced while lifting yourself up, today especially, he was experiencing some pushback, as if there was some strong wind. Then he practically ripped off a window, and entered the master bedroom of the house.

"SHOW ME WHERE HARRY POTTER IS!"

Next to the jiggling pile of blubber that was Vernon Dursley, Petunia was unable not to do what the most powerful person in the room said. While she was getting out of bed, Dumbledore searched through the memories of Vernon Dursley. It intrigued and shocked Dumbledore that although the man had no mental defenses, he was nearly unable to find any mentions of Harry. It wasn't until in a slight corner he found what was labelled within the man's head as "freaks". When he went down that path, flashes images of every encounter with a wizard the man had, and another subsection, labeled "boy".

Albus was almost too scared to go down that path, but did anyway. A flurry of frightening images, but the most disturbing and recent was of a beating that happened not hours before. This had to be what set off his alarm. Vernon was yelling at the boy, about beating the "freakishness" out of him, so his "freak friends" will not come visiting in the dead of night. Albus felt extremely guilty, but no act should have resulted in violent punishment. He saw Vernon whacking a wooden ruler against the boy's head, and all over the freak's body.

Wait, did he just think that?

It was hard to keep yourself sane when within someone else's head, as you are subject to their thought patterns. He wanted to immediately eject himself from this vile mind, but decided to press on a little further. He skipped through the rest of the beating, shuddering at such atrocities.

Ah, here we go, right after the beating. Vernon was standing proudly, as if he was a conquering hero over a vanquished foe. And that foe was on all fours, upon the kitchen floor, wiping his own blood and tears, while still adding to the pool.

Albus was enraged, how could they do this to a child?! This was inhumane! They needed to take to court, or Azkaban!

He left the man's mind, disgusted. The legilimency had taken less than ten seconds, so he followed Petunia downstairs, hoping to save Harry form these horrible, horrible people that Albus was ashamed that he left him with them all those years ago.

Harry felt a twinge in gut, similar to the one he felt earlier that night, but different. This one was a lot clearer, and there was a definite emotion to it. Anger. He was too exhausted to shut it down, but stretched out, in the same way, searching for this freakishness, trying to push it away. Then something strange happened. It was as if he was looking out of another set of eyes. He say the freakishness. It was swirling around a figure.

Through this set of eyes, light wasn't working, the world appeared to be dark, and Harry struggled to make out the details of the houses around him. The street lights still produced light, but it didn't seem like it hit anything. In fact it appeared to not leave the lamps themselves. Harry could see that they were sources of light, but nothing more. Harry then focused in on the freakishness.

In the dark, almost undefined, world, this was the source of attention. It was white, almost silver, and it appeared to be revolving around a focal point, but it wasn't calm, not, it was moving around irritably, as if it wanted to be let loose, but was being held back by a greater force. From the glimpses he could get beyond the freakishness, he caught sight of the focal point, a dark shape. A person.

Long hair danced in a halo behind the intimidating head with the long pointed hat. The clothes looked strange, long and flowing, much like a dress, but as they danced about in the freakishness' wind, they created a fearsome picture, a picture of power. In his hand he brandished a long thin object, Harry strained to see the details, it looked like a stick, but he wielded like a weapon. But what was most frightening, were the glimpses of the eyes in between the tendrils of freakishness. The eyes were cold, hard, and full of anger. They look like they could a melt a steel beam, and freeze a bonfire in the same look. (If Harry had been more versed in magical creatures, he may have described them as a basilisk's) Harry shuddered, he did not ever want to be under those deadly eyes.

Suddenly, without warning, Harry recoiled back into his own head, much like an elastic band stretched too far. He was pretty sure that some scabbed over wounds began to bleed again, or at least he was aware of his wounds again. The light sounds of Aunt Petunia' feet came above him, and then another's, to light to be Dudley, much less Uncle Vernon, but why was there another person upstairs?

Albus did not know what he expected, but it certainly wasn't Petunia unlocking – as in he could not get out – the cupboard under the stairs. There, lying was a nine year old, staring at him through wide green eyes, congealed blood in his jet black hair, wearing clothes that were evidently too large for him. There was fear in his eyes, as if he expected punishment.

Harry looked into those sparkling blue eyes, that were trying to be grandfatherly, but he knew he had seen them before. Only moments before. He wondered what was truly glistening, steel, or ice?

* * *

Harry knew this was a chance. A chance he never had before. A chance to get away. He saw how his aunt was acting. She was scared, this man is able to frighten his tormentors. This man could be friend or enemy, but Harry wasn't going to try his luck, he had a chance, he was going to take it. He did not know what he was going to do when he got away, but he knew he needed to. Every person in this house had the ability to seriously harm him. He climbed out of the cupboard, slowly, so as to not give any idea to his plan.

Dumbledore reached out his hand, and in his most kindly, and caring voice, he said, "Harry, you can call me Professor Dumbledore. You are safe now. I can help you." Harry nodded, and stood up straight.

And then he ran.

Straight for the door. Harry Potter may be wearing oversized clothes, may be injured, but he was fast. Petunia did not know how to react, but Dumbledore was quick, pointing his wand at the door, and let fire a simple locking charm. It wouldn't keep out anyone who knew _alaharma,_ but it would stop untrained magic users and muggles.

Harry felt it, the stream of the stuff he called freakishness fly past him. He shut it down, like he did so many other times. It never made it to the door. Harry reached the door, scrambled for the lock, making sure not to forget a single one, as that could cost him, either time or his entire escape.

Dumbledore watched him fiddling with the locks. Had the muggles really ruined him that much as to not trust someone being genuinely nice to him? He knew that Harry would find the door unable to open.

The door opened.

"Harry?" he tentatively called out, as the boy preformed a swift egress from the building.

"Harry?" he repeated just in case the boy had not heard him the first time.

"Harry!" this cry was in desperation.

* * *

Harry ran. He had practice doing this. Dudley and his friends were strong, but if they couldn't catch him, he couldn't get hurt. The same principles were in play here. He thought quickly. Harry knew that he couldn't run forever, more likely for another ten minutes. He needed a place to hide immediately, it didn't have to be impossible to find, but it needed to throw off the preliminary search parties. When the all clear was given, he needed a more permanent solution. He'll figure that bit out later.

Dumbledore needed to find Harry. Also he needed to figure out why the locking charm failed. He was sure of his aim, it was a large target no more than ten meters away. How? Why? Albus shook his head. Not now. The course of action that was necessary at the moment was finding the boy. He decided to try a simple tracking spell – the simplest, in fact. _"Point me Harry Potter_ ", Albus Dumbledore intoned, wand on palm. The wand began spinning.

Harry felt the all too familiar twinge that indicated something was amiss. He searched for the cause, not searching in a physical sense, rather trying to figure out what part of his body was the closest to the source. He was trying to figure out what shape this one took. It was gentle, almost too gentle to feel, but it appeared to be a string attached to his abdomen. He mentally forced it away, wanting no part of its implications.

The wand continued to spin, slower now, it slowed to a stop, this was unusual. It should stop abruptly or point in a general direction then sway. It shouldn't stop spinning. Was his wand failing? The last two spells he had cast with it had not succeeded. Now that he thought about it, neither did his disillusionment nor his conjuring. Curious. He needed a control variable. Muggle science could teach you so much. He levitated a lamp up and down. That seemed to work.

Vernon and Dudley had finally made their way downstairs, and all three Dursleys were standing there, wide-eyed and open-mouthed in shock. They were watching a strange man do impossible things within their house, while he was murmuring about science. They had always prized themselves on a normal lifestyle, but this most definitely was not one.

Harry vaulted over the fence. This was a common shortcut to the park, he usually went there, but unless they sent Dudley after him, they wouldn't know where he was going. If they did, they would still have a hard time finding him, because Dudley's gang had not found this hiding spot yet. Along the borders of the park were clusters of trees, quite close together, and Harry started to climb one of them.

Testing completed, Dumbledore had proof that his wand worked, so he tried a more complex tracking spell, it should give an arrow and tell him exactly how far away the target was. He performed the intricate wand motions, and carefully annunciated the syllables, making sure to feel the magic leaving him. He was sure the spell was completed.

As he was climbing the tree, he realized the next assault was coming – and it was a big one. It wasn't here yet, but the shockwaves projected its approximate location. Harry tried to detect where it was, with every pore of his skin, and wanted to get as close as possible to the source, to prevent it from reaching him. That's when he slipped back into the other set of eyes. The park was black, the shapes of the trees almost indeterminable against the ground. He saw it. It was black too, but the details were emphasized in dark blue.

Where the last attack had been a string, no thicker than a spider's web, these were ropes, three of them and reaching out to get him. On the end of each rope were wicked looking barbs. Harry felt that they would not let go once they took hold of him.

He focused himself feeling the specific wavelengths of one of the ropes, and he's not quite sure how he did it, but he sent out a corresponding signal that negated the rope. There were still two more, and they were closer than ever, and Harry didn't have time to do it again. He was still in the dark set of eyes, so he couldn't move his body, but maybe he could run interference here?

Harry tried to move. He couldn't without being in his body, he has no physical contact with the outside world, and that means he cannot push off things, and therefore move. What if he looked at it from a different angle? He can't see them in the real world, but he can see them in this one. They only exist in this form in this world. If they were ropes, couldn't he cut them in this world?

Now how world he get a tool into this world though, just by imagining the ropes would be cut? No he would need a sharp object. What's a sharp object? A sword! He quickly imagined a sword cutting the ropes, but nothing happened. His gut told him this would work, and he wasn't one to disagree with his gut. So he concentrated, on every detail the sword had. The bejeweled hilt, to the long shining blade, imagined its weight, exactly where to cut and the effort it required to cut.

The whiplash of returning to his head occurred again. He was pretty sure he did it, but it took a lot out of him. He was tired. He climbed up into the tree, got comfortable between three branches and fell asleep.

 **Like it? Let me know. Leave a review. Oh, and I set a limit for myself. there is going to be no chapter less than 2,000 words. Do you guys like that?**


	3. Old Friends

**A/N: OK, so I realized that 2,000 words is not a lot when it comes to fanfiction, but what the heck. I don't have time to write more and this is my first one, I shouldn't get too ambitious. Also, I forgot to put disclaimers. Leave a review, if you think of something interesting, I may just incorporate it in the story.**

Disclaimer: I didn't forget this time.

Rita clicked and clacked at her typewriter. She took a sip of her pepperup potion. She had been up all night, and still wasn't done. This wasn't going to make it in today's version of the Prophet, but it would be headlines tomorrow. She yawned and took another sip. She had to finish this this would be the story of the decade. Finding a boy, nay a hero, who has been missing for eight years? Oh, she was going to be rich. She took another sip of the potion, she needed to be wide awake.

* * *

Harry was uncomfortable when he woke up. Trees are not the softest things in the world. Trees. Tree. He was in a tree. He wasn't at his aunt and uncle's house. He was free. He needed to get somewhere where he could gather himself, somewhere where there was someone he knew would help him. Someone who stood up for him.

He knew where they lived. No, not they, he needed to think of them as a person now. He knew where she lived. She was almost two years older than him, no longer went to the same school, but thankfully still lived close. He needed to get to her when she was alone, her parents might not be as supportive of his cause and call the police, or worse, his family.

Harry tried to move an arm, OH! It ached like, like, he had no words to describe it. He tried his legs, the same. It was going to be a painful walk. He managed to fall out of the tree without too much hurt, but getting up would be a problem. He looked up. The sky was a clear blue, the only clouds being wispy and thin. The sun was already well above the horizon. Harry would estimate it was nine or ten.

Once he managed to get himself out of the park, he was grateful that it was a Tuesday, most adults would be at work, and most kids would be at home. He limped through the streets that he had been chased through oh so often. He shuddered as he relived one of the more painful memories.

 _He clutched the artwork that was responsible for putting him into this situation close to his chest. He looked at it. It was a drawing of a scene, just a playground with a stick figure family happily inside. It wasn't anything. But the teacher had to go and praise him for it. In front of the class. In front of Dudley. Dudley was jealous. Why did his little squirt of a cousin get recognition for his measly piece of work?_

 _Dudley needed to prove he was better than the freak. He told his friends to help him beat him up. Naturally they all agreed, and once the school day ended, they rushed out and set up camp waiting for their target to arrive. When he did make his appearance, he was still looking at his drawing, surprised that anyone had given him recognition. They ambushed him and pulled him close, walking with him away from the school, towards the park, gripped between the arms of stronger boys._

 _He was being practically dragged to the park, and they dropped him. Harry knew what they were going to do, and was waiting for the first blow, but they were in no rush to start. No, they should wait until later, when all the witnesses leave._

 _"_ _Get up, scum," one of them ordered, kicking him. Harry almost yelped, but kept it quiet, not wanting another kick. He did as he was told, and climbed to his feet. The boys talked amongst themselves. Harry stayed silent, because he wasn't part of the group and didn't agree with the things he was saying about their teacher. He tried to leave at one point, but to no success. They boys just pushed him back in, saying "Where do you think you're going?"_

 _He tolerated the experience, hoping that they were changing, hoping that they weren't going to hit him. He knew that they would. And they did. Harry wasn't paying attention, but the coast must have been clear, as he caught Dudley's right hook straight to the face. He fell to the grass, dropping the picture. The picture slowly fluttered down to Dudley's feet._

 _"_ _Oh, you fancy yourself an artist, do you?" Dudley taunted. He then kicked him, and his friends followed suit. Harry curled up into a ball, waiting for the pain to end, for the torture to stop. Surprisingly, it did._

 _Harry looked up. Dudley was looking at his friends, "How about we have a little fun?" he declared. It wasn't really a question. We will give him a chance to run, and if we catch him, he gets double the kicks. Harry looked at the group of people through teared eyes and broken glasses. This wasn't Dudley's usual gang of muscle, no some of the members off the running club were there. Some of the best._

 _This was always the plan, pretend to give Harry a chance and then give him the punishment he "deserved". Well, he had to at least try. They widened the circle, giving him room to stand. He reached for the paper. Dudley stepped on it._

 _"_ _Oh, you want your piece of work, artist? Not going to happen."_

 _Without thinking, Harry grabbed it and tore it from under Dudley's feet as he turned to run. He broke from the circle, not going the way Dudley expected, to home, but towards a different street. The group of boys had not expected him to take the chance so quickly, and to be running in that direction. "Let's catch him!" the leader shouted, which was just the push they needed to start off._

 _Harry clutched the artwork that was responsible for putting him into this situation close to his chest. He looked at it. A corner had ripped off when he took it from under his tormentor's shoe. That's where he must have been standing. Harry looked back, they were after him, and fast. He went faster, body still hurting from the kicks. He took a swift left turn, hoping to find another soon, and throw them off the scent. He glanced at the street sign, apparently he was on Dogwood Street. There! A right! He took it, crossing the street. Unluckily for him the foremost runners had just gotten to the turning point, and saw him taking the turn._

 _He ran faster, he had to get away, and took the next right, and that would put him back at the original street he ran onto from the park. From there, he could go left or right. Left would be away from the park, right would be towards it. He decided to double bluff them and take the right. They would think, 'Why would he go back, he must have gone forwards. He took the turn._

 _He was running full pelt towards the park. NO! A couple of the slower people, or the non-running club members, Dudley included, were still at the park and they saw him. "He's over here!" Harry looked over his shoulder, they were already at this street and running towards him. At the back, there were the runners, at his front, his cousin. Any other options? There was one. He took a right turn back onto Dogwood and continued. He was exhausted now, and couldn't carry on much longer. He was sure he was doomed when a voice said, "Get in here, quick!"_

 _He looked up and saw a girl, holding a door open with one hand, and beckoning to him with the other. He ran there as fast as he could, not wanting to turn down a possible escape route. She opened it a little wider to let him in, and once he was, she quickly shut the door. He collapsed on the floor, dead-tired from the run._

 _She gave the boy some space, not wanting to be rude or anything. When he looked up, she offered a hand to help him stand. "Here, sit on this couch." He looked exhausted, so she offered him a drink. "Would you like some juice or water?" she blurted out, "I would offer you tea, but I don't know how to make it yet –"_

 _"_ _Water," he croaked out, "please." He was never allowed juice at home, he didn't want to break the rules here either._

 _He examined his savior, she had light brown hair, cut just above her shoulders, tucked behind her ears. She was taller than him, but not by too much, suggesting maybe two or three years older. He didn't really get a chance to look at her eyes and see what color they were._

 _She came back with the beverages and noticed the paper in his hands. "Oh, did you draw this? It's good, pity it's ripped."_

 _Harry took a sip of his drink, and replied in a clearer voice. "Yeah, and I think it's the reason they're after me."_

 _"_ _Were they going to hurt you?"_

 _"_ _Yeah," he murmured, as if he didn't want her to hear._

 _"_ _That's what it looked like," and she went on to describe how she was reading at the table when she heard someone running, and he looked like he was terrified, so when she saw him again, she offered him sanctuary. "All that over a drawing?"_

 _"_ _Yeah"_

 _She extended her hand, as you would do during a handshake, "My name's Tiffany."_

* * *

Dumbledore paced around his office. How could every tracking charm, every spell he used to try and find Harry fail? It didn't make sense. He knew when he was beat, but he wasn't done yet. Albus Dumbledore was the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, the Chief Warlock of Wizengamont and the Headmaster of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Being all this, means he had connections, and powerful ones, too.

He couldn't use any of his Ministry people, as he wanted to keep this under wraps. He blanched at the thought of the headlines, if this got out. "Albus Dumbledore Loses Boy Who Lived." That would not be good. No, he needed someone private. Someone he could trust. Preferably someone with a personal connection, so they won't betray his story to the media.

He knew just the person, but getting to him would prove to be a challenge. As of the moment, it would seem that he was somewhere on the continent. Would he have contact with anyone here? There was one person. Albus threw some green powder into his fireplace. "Albus, what a surprise, what's the occasion?" the voice came.

"I would like to discuss the whereabouts of our mutual friend."

The silence extended. "I am not seeking to incarcerate him, I need his help." Albus offered up, hoping that this would break the ice between the two men. He heard a sigh.

"I'm getting to old for this, and I'm not nearly half your age. How do you keep doing this?" Albus opened his mouth to reply. The other man raised up his hand, "Forget it, I'll tell you. I haven't spoken to him in a while, but last I heard, he was staying in a house just outside Nice, France. I'll send to the address. He may not listen to reason, though, I should come with you." Albus thanked him profusely and told him what a great service he was doing, not only him, but the nation. Once the firecall ended, Remus Lupin poured himself a drink. He was getting too old for this.

* * *

Harry looked up at the street sign. Dogwood. Just like he remembered. He limped down, trying to remember which one it was. He had been there before, but it was under different circumstances that he was coming this time. Here it was. He quickly scanned for her parent's car. It wasn't there, good. He knew that she usually did not go out with her family, but there were many factors in play. Hey hadn't spoken in a year, she could have forgotten about him, or no longer care to help him. They could have moved, or she decided to go out with the family at this time. Maybe she had new friends, better friends. They could have gotten a new car and he didn't know. Anything was possible.

He realized that he was standing at her front door, motionless. He realized he had to act. This was his only way out. He knocked. And waited. He was about to turn and try and figure something new out, but he heard some scuffling behind the door. "Just a minute!" a voice called. A girl's voice. Harry tried not to get his hopes up and failed miserably.

The door opened. There looking back at him was Tiffany.

"Harry!" He was engulfed in a hug. "You are hurt." It wasn't a question. "Come inside, I will get an ice pack." He did as he was told. Ironically, he was sitting in the same spot on the same sofa that he sat on when she had first saved him.

She came back with an ice pack, wrapped in a towel. "Here put this on your head." He did. "OK, I will be right back, there's one thing I know will make you feel at least slightly better." She ran upstairs without waiting for a response.

Harry examined the room, trying to notice any changes that might have happened in the time that had passed from when he had been here last. He couldn't notice any. The thundering on the stairs let him know that his friend was returning. She brandished a piece of paper. With a corner ripped.

"Is that –"

"Yup!"

"You kept that? I gave it to you so long ago, when we first met."

"Exactly! That's why I kept it. So why are you here? I know you wouldn't come just because of some injuries. You're brave like that." Tiffany tussled Harry's hair lightly, careful not to aggravate his injuries.

"You know my aunt and uncle?"

"Yeah…"

"I finally got away."

"WHAT?!"

"There was a weird situation, you probably won't believe me."

"Come on, try me, I've seen some pretty crazy stuff."

"Would you believe an old man with crazy eyes appeared upstairs in their house, then came downstairs and claimed he was a processor?"

"Processor?"

"Something like that. I think it means teacher."

"You mean Professor. OK, that was pretty weird. So how'd you escape?"

"He caused a disturbance, and I ran out." He decided to omit the rest of the story, because he was pretty sure it was all a dream, or he was going crazy. She laughed.

"If that's all, I wish I could tell you my stories, but I'm probably not allowed," she looked at him strangely, "Unless-" She cut herself off. "So what's your plan now? You are hurt, have no money food, or a way to get either of those."

"Uh…" Harry was not quite sure how to phrase this. "I was hoping you could…"

"Let you stay with me?"

"NO! Nothing like that! Just kinda…"

"Point you in the right direction?"

"Yeah"

* * *

After hours of following the trail, Albus Dumbledore and Remus Lupin stood in front of a shabby door leading to a house that was practically in disrepair. This was it, Remus detected on magical life form inside, along with a host of many rodents and insects. Albus knocked firmly upon the door. There was no response. He stood back and let Remus kick it open. The furniture in this house was tattered, to say the least. There were bottles everywhere, from rolling about on the floor to every available counter top of bookcase, to the dining table. There, passed out on that table, surrounded by almost empty bottles, they gazed upon the most distinguished, dishonorable discharged tracker that the Auror force had to offer. They looked upon the inert form of the mangy mutt, Sirius Black.

 **What'd you think? Have any ideas? Leave a review.**


	4. Halloween night, 1981

**A/N: I had meant to post this during the weekend, but due to lack of access to my laptop, I was unable to. I now understand more clearly the struggles fanfiction authors type about in the A/N section. This chapter wasn't really supposed to exist, it was more meant to be an introduction, but the story kept going on, and I liked it this way, at least now I have a plan for what comes next. In this chapter we see a certain Dark Lord. Hope you enjoy, and leave a review, it helps me.**

It was a dark night, and wind whistled softly through the trees. If he were still a muggle child - he grimaced at the thought - he would have been out there collecting sweets. The man had a well-defined jawline, and fierce black eyes. His dark hair could be described by some as beautiful, but he never cared for aesthetics, he preferred results. His nose was well defined, and accentuated his face perfectly.

He spoke to his soldiers, people he chose specifically for the task. Three of his best curse breakers, and one ward expert, two pieces of cannon-fodder - oh, sorry, hired wands. Then three of his inner circle: the Carrows - strong soldiers, capable of firing fast and strong curses, jinxes and hexes upon his opponents, useful in any battle, though do not quite have the concentration or the intuition to lead themselves, and there was Hardison.

Hardison had intimate knowledge of tactics and strategy, and he had many tricks up his sleeves. He had made modifications on the Potion of Fire-Breath to let it ignite when in contact with air, rather than breathing fire. He could predict every move of not only the ministry, but Dumbledore as well. He was an infallible resource, but one did worry what would happen if one of his tools back-fired. He was aware of Hardison's precautions, though, he had designed a potion that mimicked the effects of the flame-freezing charm, and slathered it all over himself.

He looked once more over the neighborhood, and seeing no sign of life he gave the order. "Yes, my Lord." the reply came. He passed around a piece of paper. In an untidy scrawl, it read, 'the Potters live in Godric's Hollow'. Suddenly, a house appeared to rise out of the ground, revealed to all of those who now knew the secret.

The ward expert barked an order, and the curse breakers quickly got to work. It was a nice piece these wards, under the Fidelis, many would not put extra protection. A lesser force than him would not have been able to gain access, even if they knew the secret. But he was not a lesser force, he was the best. He will have his way.

The setup had begun. The group stealthily made their way to the edge of the remaining wards. They set up wide area silencing and notice-me-not charms. The curse breakers took positions around the perimeter of the house now, in a perfect triangle. No less than perfect would do. Each began their relative tasks. One began to scratching runes upon the ground, he was attempting to undo the underground wardstones, preventing them from reinforcing the current wards. The second ward breaker was waving his wand in the air, attempting to negate the wards and allow them entry. The final one was stabilizing the wards, so as not to set off any indicators that the wards were going down and therefore not warn the occupants that they needed to escape. The ward expert barked out orders, and they were carried out without question, immediately, the slightest hesitation or mistake could mean that the plan could fail and if it did, their master would insure that they would not survive.

Everyone was silent, the Carrows took the back, a perfect battle duo, each mirroring the other's weakness with their own strength. That meant Hardison was with the Dark Lord in the front of the house. Voldemort looked over at his soldier. He was the epitome of what he wanted on his fighting force, not only strong, but smart, able to adapt to any situation. A person not afraid to kill. A person just like him. He was even considering-. Then the wards went down.

They had a matter of seconds before the alarm wards kicked in. The alarm wards are a backup set of wards inaccessible from the outside. This would alert the occupants of the warded area, in this case, the Potters, of the primary ward set going down. This is to help guarantee an escape, even if the wards fail to protect. Lord Voldemort does not let victims escape.

The previously placed anti-apparition wardstones kicked into action, runes glowing blue to signify their success. No escape now. The attackers had already began their run toward the house. The Dark Lord's glorious locks bounced behind him. The adrenaline pumped through his system, this is what he lived for. He let out a rare laugh. There is no way he was failing tonight.

The Potter's have been particularly tough opponents, along with their ilk, the Marauders. He made it a point to remember all of his opponents, especially ones who have caused him trouble, and the Potter's did. The first time he encountered them, they were just at a small magical bar, drinking with the aforementioned group. It just so happened that the owner of the bar was sheltering muggleborns. What's his name, ah yes, Weasley.

He decided to make an example of the bloke, but instead came head to head with Potter. It appeared that Lupin was the most tactically minded of the group, and quickly told everyone their roles. Black (curse that blood-traitor) took out at least three of his assault team, and it was close enough to full moon for Lupin to go wild. Potter's wife, the mudblood, started damage control and kept Arthur and any other civilians out of the way while banishing any debris from hitting. But Potter himself had the nerve to face him. He dodged, ducked and dashed for every bit of cover all while throwing a constant stream of spells. Voldemort had trouble tracking his trajectory and was forced to give ground. He did land a few curses, a sectumsempra hitting his wand arm. Potter was forced to come out of cover to block a curse aimed for Lupin, and got hit. Eventually with a cutting curse aimed straight for his neck, he was forced to disapparate.

The second time they faced each other, Potter was on a patrol with Lupin, and they were on high alert. The first time had taught them that Voldemort was not an easy opponent. Diagon Alley was quiet. No one dared make a noise, for fear of Death Eaters "having fun" with them. They certainly had reason to fear. Dark forces were on the prowl that night. Lord Voldemort himself made an appearance. Dumbledore's irksome Order has made is life difficult. He wanted a quiet day. Torture some mudbloods, kill some muggles, just to relax a bit. Then the duo made themselves known. That was annoying. He gave the order for them to be killed. They called back up. So much for relaxing. The Death Eaters engaged the aurors at once, making sure that none were unoccupied, so their Lord could spit spells that no one would notice and end the fight. He pointed his wand at one of the fools that started this fiasco. That's when a cutting curse hit him from behind. It must have been a powerful one. It through a Death Eater to him, if that had hit him straight-up, he would have died. It appeared as though the follower had jumped in front of it to intercept the blow. He loved his meat shields - he meant devoted followers. He turned his head and choked out some blood. Who did this to him? He caught a flash of red hair. The Potter girl. He disapparated. He needed medical attention if he was going to survive.

The last time was the most interesting of all of them. This time he was on the defensive from the beginning. The base of all of Voldemort's operations at the time was the Lestrange Mansion. Somehow, via spy or intelligence gathering, they figured it out. Potter actually led this assault against him. It is what earned him his name. The moment the wards went down, the Dark Lord knew he was in trouble. There was no way they could get everything out of the Mansion in time, and just as he was about to make his escape, the heavy feeling of the anti-apparition wards kicked in.

He may go down here. He knew this. But if he survived the full force of the Ministry and Dumbledore when he was at his weakest, it could be a serious damper on the moral of his opponents. He already had two of his inner circle lead their men into the foyer, to slow down the oncoming forces. Bellatrix was acting as his guard right now. Not many could match her speed or spells. Voldemort's cold, black eyes bore into hers, searching her mind, seeing if she knew if they would survive the night. She didn't.

It was almost time for him to show himself. He gave the order for another group to go down and prepared himself. He donned his dueling armor, reinforced so as to provide protection from potentially lethal spells, although not cutting spells that are capable of splitting a person in two. He shook the memory. He still had the scar. He would probably have it as long as he lived. He silently counted to three. "DIFFINDO!" he aimed his wand at the floor. He, along with a good portion of the floor - and Bellatrix, fell straight into the drawing room, crushing a rather unfortunate Death Eater.

He took a look at the situation here. No one took their eyes off their dueling partners. He and his partner quickly dispatched the invading forces in the room, freeing his soldier to combat some more. Bah, all trainees. He hastily made his way toward the foyer, with Bellatrix on his heels. There he saw a scary sight, only four aurors, but there were more than triple of his people. The elegantly designed room was scattered with bodies, the red-robed aurors and the masked Death Eater's James Potter was making his way through the room, with a look that could melt steel, dueling three people at once, one of them a member of his inner circle. Up ahead of him, clearing the path was his partner in crime, Black, using an intricate combination of spells that Voldemort's eyes could not follow, dueling five people, with minimal cover. Meanwhile his partner in life had his back and was sending spells flying whenever there was a lapse in Potter's barrage.

Just then Potter barked something out, and his wife stepped back. Out of his wand came a long glowing tendril of plasma, crackling and hissing, throwing sparks in the air around him. He lashed out at his opponents, his mid to long range weapon perfect for this kind of indoor scenario. He sent his whip of fire crashing into the barricade that the Death Eaters had set up, alighting it. This sent them dashing for safer cover, only to be corralled by the whip of Potter. Locke, his inner circle member was hiding behind a pillar. Potter walked past him, without noticing, and dispatched one of the remaining Death Eaters in front of him. When Locke thought it was an appropriate time to strike, he jumped out and was about to cast the killing curse -

Then a flash of red saw Locke's body separated from his head, and momentum sent it flying across the room, spraying blood. Locke had forgotten how many opponents he was facing, idiot! Voldemort retreated to the hallway, the battle was lost in there, and this would be a more tactical position. Soon after he had transfigured paintings into cover, Black and Potter came around the corner. They dodged and ducked through the spells he fired. One of the spells, a particularly painful one that he had aimed for Black grazed Potter's wife's leg as she rounded the corner. Potter's eyes grew cold and hard. He began launching his whip like a madman, setting fire to the carpet. He was forced to go back into the kitchen. There was more space there.

Potter went straight through the flames, it was actually Black who cast the flame-freezing charm just in time. Not that it seemed that Potter would care at all, with that look of determination. Voldemort briefly considered casting the charm on himself too, but decided against it. It would cost potential seconds, and it probably wouldn't work against magically induced fire. He vaguely wondered if this was a form of fiendfyre. Potter was certainly fiendish, and the whip that had almost cut off his head as he leaned backwards was certainly fire. Bellatrix attempted to help him, but was intercepted by Black.

"Hello, cousin."

Just like that, the two Blacks were head to head, intricately dancing in tune with the light of their wands. He could no longer pay them any heed, as he needed to concentrate fully on Potter. Potter was relentless, driving him back with every swing. Voldemort was forced to retreat. He was a Slytherin. He knew he had to gain the tactical advantage, rather than put all of his force at once, and hope for the best. That's how he had come so far. He stepped back to the kitchen. He aimed his wand at the door, ready to fire off three Avada Kedavras in quick succession. He was prepared when he saw the shadow of Potter, backlit by the flames he cause, appear near the door.

It appeared as though Potter was about to step through the door when he paused. He appeared to hunch his back, as if in extreme pain. Maybe one of the spells hit and was having a late effect! Then something strange happened. His legs were bending in the wrong way, His head looked wrong, and there were protrusions from his skull.

An injured half-blood Death Eater in the room exclaimed, "The Devil!" The Dark Lord was reminded of his orphanage days when he was sent to church, ordered to recite Bible verses. He hated it, but he wasn't entirely sure that it was false, especially not with this figure that had just stepped into the room. With his fire whip, burning eyes, horns, and goat legs, and misshapen face, Potter matched his mental image of the Devil. He knew he had no chance against a deity. He wasn't completely sure one was in front of him, but he wouldn't take chances. He ran to the window, dodging the whip's scalding tendril as it flew in the air all around him. He glanced outside, all while firing curses that Potter ignored or dodged. There it was!

He shattered the window and with careful aim, he shot an exploding hex at the wardstone planted in the ground. It shattered. Voldemort felt the pressure lighten off of him. He could apparate now. He gave the order to retreat. He looked Potter in the eyes once more, and knew that it was no deity in front of him, but an enraged man. But, the damage was done, the morale broken, Potter was the Devil of Lestrange Mansion. Neither said anything nor moved nor attacked, they just continued to circle each other. Voldemort apparated away.

This time would be different. He rushed the house, while casting his most powerful shield. Nothing would stop him now.

James, having told Lily to take Harry upstairs to safety began preparing his defense. He also thought back to that same night. He was not invulnerable here, he did not have people on the sidelines constantly refreshing his shield and deflecting spells like he did that night. He was no match for Voldemort alone. He had seconds at best.

Voldemort burst through the door. It was battle time. Hardison was by his side. He was ready to launch a potion. A fire potion. In the house of the Devil. He had not told Hardison! The potion launched from his apparatus, through the air his estimated trajectory would put it in a space near Potter. He panicked. Time was slowing down, but Voldemort was a fast wizard. He flicked his wand into a simple levitation and once that landed, he changed it into a stasis spell.

James was shocked to see Voldemort cancel an attack from one of his mates, but finished what he was working on. Their bright orange sofa that James had so proudly bought for their house was now stripy, taller, and had wicked teeth. The giant tiger leapt upon its foes as James quickly analyzed the situation. The obviously stronger opponent would be Voldemort, so he'd better get rid of the distraction first. He ordered the tiger to step back, and cast a powerful incendio at the figure.

It appeared as if there was a slight gap in the coating of his salve, and the flames found their way through the gap in the space within the potion, but touching his skin. Naturally this made for a very roast Hardison. The potion was still fire proof, so no flames were escaping, this also meant that none could be put out.

Potter then turned his attention back upon the Dark Lord, and both began hurling hexes, but it was evident that the Dark Lord had the advantage, James was retreating within his own house. He cast a weakening charm upon the floor, hoping to slow him down, but no such luck.

James went down without knowing what hit him.

The Carrows had attacked from behind. A swift death. Potter was a good warrior, but Voldemort had a task to complete. He went upstairs. Entered what was clearly the baby's room. That's when he encountered Lily Potter. Her striking red hair and green eyes stood out against her pale skin. Her hands appeared to be coated with blood, maybe she saved him from doing the job. A baby gurgled in his crib. She was murmuring something about killing her instead. He had promised Severus. His information on where to find Pettigrew was also sound. He decided to do the man a favor, and if she got out of his way, she would live, formidable opponent or not.

Without her partner, her spirit would be broken. "Stand aside, girl." More sobbing, screaming and begging. He silently counted to three. He cast the curse upon her. She was annoying. He looked within the babe's crib. There was an awful amount of blood on it, but he paid it no heed, he was here to eliminate a threat, no more. The fact that he took the Potters down as well, why, that's just a bonus.

He cast the curse.

The spell rebounded, and hit Voldemort, enough so to kill him, even temporarily. He had taken precautions obviously. There were blood runes etched all over his body preventing the killing curse from harming his soul. He was able to return to his body the instant he was orientated. Although he was severely drained from being expelled from his body. He would need to recharge in his physical form. It should not take long, perhaps a week or so.

The side effect of not being in your body was that all your spells cancel. It would be a pain recasting all those imperiuses. What Voldemort did not consider though, was a stasis spell downstairs. It turns out that stasis has an odd effect on the potion, it causes it to build up pressure, so when the potion fell to the ground, it caused a massive explosion, destroying almost the whole house and incinerating the three dead bodies that were lying around.

The wraith of Voldemort was also affected by this explosion, though it did not have a physical form. It was launched all the way across Europe, and was extremely magically drained.

A baby survived though, surrounded of undestroyed floor, and a segment of wall.

 **A/N: Hoped you enjoyed. Leave a review. This is my most reviewed story. Since its my first, it's also my least. Let's try and keep it my most. I enjoy constructive criticism, questions or concerns. Help me out by leaving a review.**


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